


wither with you

by kareofbears



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27199487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kareofbears/pseuds/kareofbears
Summary: Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.”“Why not?”“What?”“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”--Hanahaki Disease is a disease where the victim of unrequited love begins to vomit or cough up the petals of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing difficult.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 71





	wither with you

**Author's Note:**

> for the sake of me and my personal comfort, i made sumire a year older. So she's a second year, and akechi is still a third year
> 
> big thanks to my [beta, mildkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildkat), for reading and editing my fic even though she has no interest in persona 5 and even less interest in akesumi

Tokyo is a busy place. 

It’s constantly jam-packed with excited tourists and impatient suits and laughing teenagers. There’s lights, there’s cars, and there isn’t a lot of patience for those who can’t keep up. Eyes dart around, taking in the people, the atmosphere. It doesn’t matter how many times someone’s been there—there’s always something new to see. There’s always something new to miss. 

There are spots, however. Spots that go under the radar of the hustle and bustle, of the city life so ingrained into the concrete and roads. They go undetected, and people can live their entire lives in Tokyo without knowing that these spots ever existed. With how fast life moves, these spots are respites; they act like small pocket holes of air for whoever wants it, or for whoever needs it. 

Though the park is open to the public, very few people come to this section of the garden—it’s long been overgrown with weeds and tree roots make it dangerous for children to play in. When it rains, the ground turns into mud, making it unpleasant for strolls. The only plus side that it has going on for it is the aging, olive-toned gazebo with a bench that creeks whenever someone sits down.

In the end, it was the sound of retching that gave Akechi away. 

He’s slouched over on the bench, eyes clenched shut. His breathing shakes along with his shoulders as he rasps for air, the rain doing little to muffle the noise. Even from this distance, she can see the petals fall and join the pile on the ground, bright and yellow like lemons.

“Would you like some water?”

He stills, and for a long moment, only the droplets ringing from the roof made a sound. Sumire lowers her hand, still clutching the bottled drink. 

“Did you follow me here?” he asks, voice guttural. 

There’s no point in lying. “Yes.”

A beat passes. 

“That looks painful,” she says quietly. 

Slowly, he raises his head, jaw tight. “Are you mocking me?” 

“No. I would never.” 

“Bullshit,” a smile splits across his features, and she winces. With a bright yellow petal still stuck at his bottom lip, he’s an uncanny match to a cat who just ate a bird. “You follow me here, to the middle of a random park to, what? Hold my hair back? Give me _water?_ Give me a break and fuck off.” 

Sumire shifts the umbrella in her hand. She doesn’t want to enter the undercover area just yet. “This is a nice spot,” she remarks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.”

“And you won’t be coming here again.” His eyes narrow. “Are you really so bored that you stalk me all the way here for some chit chat? For small talk? Or are you just not getting the hint?” 

“It doesn’t have to be small talk. I was thinking we can just...talk.” 

“Talk?” he repeats, incredulous. “I don’t know how to make it more obvious that I have no interest, no _willingness_ to talk to you. Why don’t you just run back to the little circus troupe and I’m sure that they’ll peel back some time out of their busy schedule instead of bothering me.”

“Are you busy, Akechi-kun?”

“What?” 

She can’t help it anymore—her eyes flicker downwards to the small pile of petals by his feet, captivated by the vivid colors. He doesn’t miss it. 

“ _Oh,_ I see now,” Akechi lets out a bark of laughter, the sound echoes against the trees. “There’s two things that you could possibly be here for: one, you’re here for a show. I don’t know how you found out, but you want to see it up close. You want to see the Detective Prince fall to his knees, for flowers to shoot out of his lungs and come out of his throat like a magic act—”

“That is _not_ why I’m here.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Then we come to possibility number two, and to be honest, this one is much more infuriating and _revolting_ than the last: you, Yoshizawa Sumire, _pity_ me. You and everyone else in that ensemble of faux-heroism carry this guilt complex that gives you the drive to demean the people around you into believing that they need help, that they _want_ help, so you can show up, capes blowing in the wind, to feel needed. I don’t want any part of that—”

“I don’t pity you, Akechi,” she cuts in, stepping into the roofed area. He recoils ever so slightly. “And I’m not here for a show, either.”

“You are.” 

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he reiterates, unwavering. “Because if you aren’t, then why are you here?” 

“Because I’d rather be here with you than be back there with them.”

Akechi stares at her, and she stares back. After a moment, he shakes his head and stands, shoes nearly stepping into the delicate yellow pile.

“I’m done wasting my time,” he strides past without looking in her direction. “I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care what your game is, or what you plan on doing. All I care about is you never stepping foot here again, so leave me alone.” 

And with that, he’s gone, leaving her in an empty gazebo. Despite having predicted that outcome, his rebuke still stung.

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. His footsteps on the mushy ground can no longer be heard from where she was standing.

Sumire takes a shallow, shaky breath, and lets out a cough. 

A single, pink petal falls into the yellow heap as the rain continues to pour.

— 

She was already sitting on the bench with a plastic bag at her side when Akechi arrived the next day. 

He studies her, and she lets herself hope for a heartbeat. 

Then he turns around and walks away. 

— 

Her bottled tea has long since cooled in her hands as she waits for him to show up. 

When he doesn’t, she tosses it in the trash with a grimace.

— 

Rain continues to pour down from the gutter of the gazebo, plastic bag swaying from her fingertips. 

Sumire coughs, and again. Each time, a flurry of petals escaped from her lips. She doesn’t see him today, either. 

— 

“Are you going to keep doing this?” 

She glances up from reading the label of her ginger tea to see him leaning against the wooden pillar. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

Akechi raises a gloved hand and coughs, wincing ever so slightly. “I don’t want you here,” he says as bright petals escape through his fingers. “I don’t know how to make that more clear.” 

“Why not?” 

“What?” 

“Why don’t you want me here?” Sumire brings her knees up to her chest. It does little to block out the cold. “Being here, by yourself. It gets tiring, doesn’t it?” 

He doesn’t even wait for her to finish speaking—by the time she gets her question out, he’s already leaving tracks in the mud.

— 

For three days, Sumire has the gazebo all to herself, with nothing but her drink and the autumn leaves to keep her company. Occasionally, a petal joins her. She doesn’t know if it’s from pity or punishment.

— 

“Maybe you’re too stupid to understand what I’m saying.”

His cool mockery can’t be found anywhere today—with his open glare and tight jaw, it’s clear that annoyance has taken its place. Hesitantly, she calls that a good thing. 

“I won’t mince my words,” Akechi runs a hand through his hair roughly. “I do not want you near me. I do not want you near this place. Every time I see you sitting on that bench, I feel _sick._ You’re a nuisance to me, Yoshizawa. I don’t know if your existence is to punish me, mock me, or worse, you’re here because your sad little heart feels _sorry_ for me, but I do not care. Get out of my sight, or I swear I’ll—” 

His voice falters, and his eyes flutter shut. 

Sumire peers at him curiously. “Akechi? Are you—”

“Shut up.” 

“You don’t look—”

“ _Shut up,_ ” he hisses. “Don’t breathe, don’t move, or I’ll make you regret it.” 

She stays deathly still, afraid of what’ll happen if she makes any movement. All she can do is stare as he clamps a hand over his mouth, brows furrowed, chest rising and falling shakily. In just a matter of moments, a light sheen covers his forehead. In the faint light coming through cloudy skies, he looks more exhausted than she’s ever seen him.

And just when she thinks that he’s got it under control, his eyes fly wide open and he lurches forward, his torso hanging over the edge, making the entire gazebo creak under a new weight as he vomits out a stream of bright, yellow dandelions. Petals burst forth and sank into autumn foliage in a grim way. She watches him heave up an entire bouquet, desperately clutching the railing to the point where there’s a risk it might snap underneath his hand. After what seemed like hours, Akechi finally slumps back, hair sticking to his forehead and sheer with sweat. The rain mingles in seamlessly with his stuttering panting. 

Automatically, Sumire reaches forward to...what? Comfort him? Rub his back? She makes a fist around her plastic bag instead.

When he finally speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice above a whisper. “Was that what you wanted?”

Yes. No. “I don’t know.” 

“I should have asked this the minute I saw you here,” his eyes slide sideways to meet hers, and there’s still a single petal stuck to his coat collar. “But why are you even here?” 

When she doesn’t answer, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see. So you tail me, force me out of my own makeshift hideout, wait until I display a _humiliating_ act of weakness, for seemingly no reason? And here I thought I was the sadistic one.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Then enlighten me, Yoshizawa.” 

Before she answers, Sumire rummages through her plastic bag to pull out bottled hot lemonade (still warm this time), and places it next to Akechi. 

“Might help your throat,” she smiles slightly. He ignores it, so she pushes forward. “It’s what I said, from before. It must be tiring. Exhausting.” 

“To what?”

“To be by yourself. All the time. Especially with what you have to go through.” 

“So you do pity me?” 

“Far from it.” 

“Then _what is it?_ ”

The smell of petrichor seems ingrained in the old wood, but fresh rain only makes the smell of fallen leaves even stronger. 

"You're in love with Akira, right?"

Akechi gives her an empty stare, not a single emotion leaking through. "And what about it? What does that have to do with you being here?"

Sumire opens her mouth to respond, when she feels something catch in her throat. Quickly turning away, she coughs, hard. Hard enough that her chest constricts in pain and her throat feels like it's on fire and full of water at the same time, like a dam imploded and now all the debris is stuck in one area. For each time she coughs, a flurry of pink flies from her lips—a macabre hanami in the middle of autumn. 

By the time she turns back to him, his eyes are wide, before it dawns with understanding. 

“Huh.” 

She can’t help but smile, just a little. “Sounds about right. That’s...that’s how I found out about you, actually. With how you looked at Akira—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, and for the first time, his composed expression cracks; enough to reveal the hurt underneath. “I know. You don’t have to say it.” 

_It looked exactly how I would stare at him, too._

“Okay,” she whispers. “I won’t.” 

Despite everything, Sumire feels...good. Better. The seemingly-permanent weight on her shoulders eases as the words left her mouth. It felt inexplicably good to finally say it out loud, to let her thoughts leak into the world, and to have someone listen in return. 

“Is that why you’re here?” 

She glances at him. He’s staring at the puddles accumulating at the foot of the steps, the stillness constantly interrupted by the never-ending raindrops that seem to favor them to no end. 

Does he mean the loneliness that comes with this? The isolation? The feeling of being _stuck,_ unable to move forward and impossible to ever move back, despite being willing to do anything to get rid of this humiliating sickness? The fact that even her own body is ashamed of her feelings to the point where it wants to make it known to everyone around her? 

It doesn’t matter. The answer won’t change. 

“Yes.” 

Akechi nods like he understands, like he really, truly understands. And he does. Sumire lets out a breath. 

“Sorry, by the way.” 

“What for?” 

Sumire gestures vaguely. “For invading your privacy. For following you to a place that’s pretty much become your oasis, and forcibly taking it from you.” She rubs the back of her neck. “That was kind of horrible of me.” 

He scoffs. “You think that was enough to bother me? That was nothing but a nuisance. A drop in the bucket.” 

She lets out a sigh of relief. That had been a point of anxiety for her, and there was a good chance that— 

“As for forgiveness, however, I have to put that on hold.” 

Sumire blinks, and he continues. “You’re right. You invaded my privacy by following me, and persisted even when I told you to leave me alone. That’s not something I’m willing to forget,” he readjusts his gloves. “I might be an atrocious human being, but even I’m allowed to have reservations.”

He glances at her, and he must see something in her crestfallen expression. “I’m not asking you to grovel for my forgiveness. I don’t want that—dear _Lord,_ do I want anything less than that. I’m telling you that’s currently where I stand in terms of your apology.” 

In truth, she doesn’t know how to reply, or if she even should. Sumire’s hardly spoken to him before this, and she’s not sure if they’re speaking now. Akechi Goro is incredibly hard to read. She brought this on herself—still, this is better than the alternative. 

“That being said,” Akechi twists his torso to face her. “Why did you go through such an ordeal just to sit in this garbage, over glorified bus stop?” 

Sumire frowns. “I think this place is beautiful.” 

“That was absolutely not the point of the question.” 

“I know, but I feel the need to defend it.” After all, it was the only thing separating them from the never-ending waves of rain. “You’re lucky to have claimed it before anyone else did.” 

“Not lucky enough to keep it claimed, apparently.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “True.” 

He stays silent, and it’s enough of a hint that she takes a second to collect her thoughts. 

“I’m pretty sure you already know what I’m going to say.” Sumire says it like a plea, like she’s crafting her own olive branch, but she should know better than that. It’s the price to pay if she wants to stay here. 

“I know. But if there’s one thing that I hate, it’s guessing games.”

Sumire leans back against the bench, the wood cold enough to be felt through her sweater. “This place really is beautiful,” she repeats softly. “But it’s lonely, isn’t it? Especially if it’s just you here. It doesn’t matter where I am nowadays. It’s the same each time.” She tugs on her sleeves. “Ever since I fell in love with Akira, it’s been lonely wherever I am.” 

She rubs her hands together. “It’s another level of isolation that comes with this disease, don’t you think? It’s one thing to be rejected before you even had a chance to confess; it’s another to have it broadcasted—” a familiar tickle makes its way into her throat, and when she clears her throat she can feel a few petals shift in her esophagus. It’s tough to repress another cough. “For everyone to see.” 

“So you hid?”

“By myself, yes. In my room, in alley ways, bathrooms.” It becomes unbearable—she turns the other way, and frowns at the pastel blossoms. “It’s exhausting. It’s like having to hide your existence for no real reason.” 

“I know,” he says quietly.

“But then I saw something that I can say, without a doubt, shifted my entire world.” Sumire looks up. “I saw how you looked at him.” 

He stiffens. If she closes her eyes, she can see that same, open expression that he wore when they were in Leblanc. “I thought at that moment, I wasn’t the only one dealing with this.” 

“And here we are now,” he finishes. 

“And here we are now.”

A bright orange leaf breaks off from a nearby branch, landing gently into their shelter. Akechi crushes it with his shoe. 

“Compelling story,” he commends. “But I still want you gone.” 

She can’t quite muster the feeling of surprise. “Why do you want me gone so badly?” 

“That’s what the problem is, Yoshizawa. It’s not that I want _you_ gone—it’s because I want _everyone_ gone.” He grinds his shoe into the leaf. “I don’t care about you, or much else out there. To be frank, I hardly care about the person I’m humiliatingly head-over-heels for. You want to know what I care about? Myself. Me.” When he’s finished, he kicks it away, pliant and smushed. “And I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.” 

It makes sense; it lines up with everything she believed Akechi stood for. It makes sense, and yet— “Isn’t it so, horribly lonely?”

“It is,” he nods. “But I’ve been like this before I’ve met Akira, or the rest of the Thieves.” Akechi shrugs. “You learn to overcome the silence. It’s long since it stopped being a real problem for me. I don’t mind anymore.” 

“Just because you know how to overcome it doesn’t mean you have to live with it, Akechi.” 

“ _Live_ with it? There’s a lot of things I have to live with. This is just another one.” 

For a minute, Sumire can only stare at him; at his crossed arms, his defiant eyes, and when she speaks, her voice comes out soft. “You didn’t even try with him, did you?”

He laughs, the sound filled with scorn. “Of course not. Can you imagine? Confessing to Kurusu Akira, only to be laughed at? Or worse, _pitied?_ There’s no point. It’s the epitome of a fruitless endeavor, with the way Sakamoto has him wrapped around his finger.”

It’s both a blessing and a curse: once flowers begin to bloom in your lungs, it can only mean that the one you love more than anyone else in the world does not hold the same feelings for you. Detached, unrequited love. It’s efficient—quick, swift, but far from painless. The only reason one may even try to confess is to convince the love interest to try and fall in love with them.

Strangely, she felt a sense of relief at his words. At the very least, two people out there can have a proper love story. She almost feels happy for them. 

“Figures,” Sumire says. “I didn’t either.” 

“Let me guess,” Akechi rolls his eyes. “‘How tragic would it be if I were to even create a possibility of splitting up these two idiots. I would never, because I’m Yoshizawa and I have eighteen guilt complexes to take care of.’ Am I close?”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? There’s no reason to make it harder for him when I already know the answer. When there’s no hope of him loving me back.” 

“See, it’s shit like that that pisses me off.”

“You think that I can make him fall in love with me?” she says, incredulous. 

“No,” he clears his throat, wincing. “It’s the fact that you’re letting all of these people walk over you even when you’re clearly suffering and lonely or whatever else came out of your poetry book. It’s the fact that you’re still somehow _worried_ over Kurusu, when you’re the one in agony.” He coughs into the crook of his elbow a few times. “It’s the fact that you’re weak enough to push your pride aside and spend time with someone who doesn’t even want you here.”

Sumire watches a full flower land in between them, still bright yellow and horrifyingly intact. “You’re so obsessed with weakness, Akechi.” She glances at him. “But do you hate it more than being alone? Than being stuck here, in this gazebo, for who knows how long?”

When he doesn’t respond, she mutters, “Isn’t being here, in and of itself, weak?”

The rain slows down ever so lightly, unnoticeable unless someone’s been watching it for the past afternoon. Even the wind seems to be taking a break—the trees are no longer under vicious scrutiny, and the flowers around them don’t have to worry about breaking off from their stems anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s the most honest Sumire’s ever heard him speak. 

— 

When she arrives the next day, he doesn’t say anything when she sits at the opposite end of the bench. When she offers him a drink, he firmly ignores it.

She considers it a win. 

— 

It’s quieter now. It’s always been quiet, but this is one she isn’t used to.

Instead of the white noise keeping her company, it’s a boy who barely looks in her direction, who coughs yellow dandelions up like he has a wild field growing deep in his lungs. Instead of the silence keeping her company, it’s the combination of rain and breathing that rings through the air. It’s not the still air of her bedroom, or an unfamiliar bathroom that she hides herself in; it’s fresh air, it’s the autumn chill, it’s a near-stranger sitting on the opposite end of the bench. 

It’s a good kind of quiet. 

They spend days like this. Quietly arriving, quietly leaving. Wrapped in silence and in each other’s company. Sometimes, one of them gets into a coughing fit, and the other knows to look away. The fits are mostly harmless, but sometimes they get rough. Intense. And it happens for Akechi more often than not. Every time she feels that she should reach out. Every time, she talks her way out of it. 

Curiosity is enough to make the quiet step away for a moment, though.

“Does anyone else know?”

Akechi’s eyes slide from the horizon to meet hers, his gaze scrutinizing. “Are you joking? Of course not.” 

“I should’ve known,” she shifts so that her hands are under her thighs. The weather is brutal, but she expected it. It’s better than the alternative. “I’m just surprised to meet someone else who has it too, given how rare it is.” Sumire pauses. “Then again, it kind of makes sense that two people who awakened inner monsters from our souls end up having to cough up a bouquet every once in a while.”

He doesn’t respond, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Usually, he likes to keep their small talk as short as possible. It doesn’t do much to discourage her. After all, it would be nice to befriend the boy she’s been seeing every day. There’s so little she knows about him, so many questions she wants to ask. There’s no one else she can possibly talk about this curse with, no one to share the burden of knowing how this feels. So she holds onto hope that he’d like to talk about this too. In terms of her odds in success though, she’s not holding her breath. 

Still, she’s nothing if not resilient. 

— 

Every day, she brings a snack and a drink from the nearby convenience store and places a bottle of hot lemonade in between them. When he ignores it, she reluctantly throws it in the trash. It makes her grimace. What a waste. 

On the fourth day, he sighs. 

“Why do you do that?” 

Sumire pauses in chewing her rice crackers, surprised—it’s the first time he’s talking to her without prompt. “Sorry, am I loud?”

“No. Actually, yes, but that’s not what I’m asking.” His eyes dart down at the cooling bottles and back at her. “Why do you keep trying to give me these cheap drinks when you know I’m not going to drink it? You obviously hate throwing them away, but you still do it.” 

She’s about to answer when he holds up a finger. She pauses, knowing what it means by this point: _Don’t you dare say anything about this._

He stands and leans over the railing, and she looks away just as he alternates between vomiting and wheezing. From the corner of her eyes, she can see him tremble ever so slightly. Her hand twitches towards him, but she stops herself. It would only do more harm than good. She hasn’t experienced this point of the disease—at least, not yet, but it’s inevitable. It’s a matter of how long someone’s been in love, rather than the strength of the love itself. 

Questions pop into her head, and she isn’t as eager to ask these ones. Judging by the frequency of his coughs and his occasional tendency to get very sick, he’s been in this longer than she has. How long has he had it? How long has he been coming here? How long has he been alone? 

Somehow, she knows that it was far before the disease took over. 

When he finishes, he sinks back into the bench, hair sticking to his forehead. “The drink?” Akechi repeats, continuing as if nothing happened. 

“It’s supposed to relieve throat pain. And you have throat pain.” 

He squints. “Then why don’t you drink it?” 

“I don’t like lemon.” 

If she didn’t know better, it almost looks like the corner of his lip twitched upwards. “I don’t want you spending money because you pity me, Yoshizawa. It’s demeaning.” 

“I don’t pity you,” she nearly sighs. “And fun fact: these drinks are buy one, get one free! So I can get my tea, and you can get your throat-healing lemonade.”

Akechi opens his mouth, a retort about to fly out, when he begins to cough instead. She gently inches the bottle closer to him. 

When she looks away to give him any privacy an open gazebo can offer, she doesn’t miss the way his hands tuck the bottle inside of his jacket packet. 

— 

“You’re a liar.” 

Sumire’s eyes widen and hopes it comes off right. “What?”

Today is a rare sunny day, and it gives the whole area a glow that she’s never seen before—the sun’s rays hit the still-moist grass in a way that’s pleasant to her eyes, and the colors of the autumn leaves strewn around the park had never been brighter. 

“Your stupid ‘buy-one-get-one’ spiel? That doesn’t _exist?_ ” Akechi acccuses, looming over her. “Who lies about hot lemonade, of all things?”

She suppresses a sigh. Lying had never been her forte. “Okay fine, you got me.” 

“I knew it—!”

“But I only lied because I knew you’d make a huge fuss over nothing!” 

“This isn’t a fuss, Yoshizawa. You know how much I—”

“—hate being pitied,” they say in unison. 

“See? I knew you’d say that,” Sumire groans. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have pity for you. We have the _same_ problem.” 

“Then why lie?”

“Because you’d never accept it otherwise!” 

The exclamation jolts something from within her throat, and Akechi must recognize her expression. He huffs and reluctantly turns sideways as she coughs, paying no mind to the pink petals that must fly into his field of view. Once she settles down again, Akechi raises an eyebrow. 

“Well?” 

She tests her breathing before she speaks again. Clear, for now. “Look. I know what you’re going through. I probably know what you’re going through better than anyone else in this world. Me buying you hot lemonade isn’t an elaborate plan to make you look stupid, Akechi—it’s because I’m _worried_ that your throat’s going to split someday.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me.”

“That’s why I _lied,_ ” she repeats, for what feels like the millionth time. “But you just had to use your detective skills on me.”

Akechi glowers at her, and she gazes right back. “Are you going to keep getting me shit lemonade?” 

“As long as you keep coughing the way you do,” she shrugs. “Yeah, I probably will.” 

After a moment, the tension leaves his shoulders. “I don’t like feeling the feeling of owing you.”

“It’s a hundred yen.”

“So,” he ignores her, rummaging through his jacket pockets before throwing something small at her. She catches it and peers down at her hand: a bottle of ginger tea. “Apparently this is supposed to help your throat, too.” 

She stares at it with wide eyes. “You bought this for me?” 

“In a sense. It’s more because I don’t want you to think you have one over me.”

She can’t help it—a smile splits across her face. “You bought me tea so you can sleep better at night?” 

“‘It’s a hundred yen,’” he mocks. “Get over yourself. And stop getting me the lemonade so I don’t have to keep owing you.” 

“But you like the lemonade?” 

Akechi shoots her a look. “This isn’t about the lemonade, it’s about you unnecessarily buying the lemonade. So, I am asking you politely: _don’t buy me lemonade._ ”

— 

When she places a bottle of lemonade the next day, he immediately stands up and leaves the gazebo. 

Five minutes later, he returns with hot ginger tea and a fierce scowl. 

“Stop.” 

“It’s good for your health,” she argues, accepting the bottle from him. It’s almost a little too hot, given the lingering tingle from her palms.

“It’ll be bad for _your_ health if you keep pissing me off like this.”

Sumire realizes something as she unscrews the lid. It should’ve been obvious from the very beginning. From the way he acts, to his hatred of weakness, to his actions and even something as simple as accepting convenience store drinks:

Akechi Goro hates to lose. 

— 

“You’re bullshitting me.” 

She sets down a full plastic bag on the bench. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ended up getting a lot.” 

The heat of his glare almost stings her cheek. Ignoring him, she continues to rummage through her groceries. “Are you more of a chips sort of person? Pocky? I like rice crackers myself, but I’m willing to share if you—” 

“I don’t want any of this,” he hisses, coughing a little. “Why are you bringing a pantry into my gazebo?” 

_Our gazebo,_ she almost says. To be fair, it’s hardly _his_ gazebo either. 

“A few reasons.” Sumire starts setting down the contents of her bag onto the bench. Maybe if he sees something he likes, he’ll take it. Like a stray cat. A feral cat. “We’re here pretty often, and other than the drinks we keep forcing down on each other, we don’t eat.” 

“Because I don’t want to.” 

“And I stopped by the convenience store to get your drink—”

“That I never wanted.” 

“When I saw this poster on the wall that said something along the lines of,” she stretches her arm out, painting a grand picture for him to imagine like a second-rate salesman. ‘Hot pot: the meal that warms the heart and body.’ And I thought since—oh, warning, I’m going to be blunt for a second—we’re both pretty heartbroken and diseased, that maybe we could use some of that healing hot pot.” 

Akechi blinks slowly. “I don’t even know where to start with that one. That ad actually worked on you?” 

“Why on earth would they lie to their customer base?” She frowns. “Obviously, I can’t just bring an entire hot pot with me to a park, so I had the idea of buying a bunch of snacks instead. So,” gesturing at the pile of junk food laid on her seat, and threatening to topple to his side of the bench. “We feast.” 

The rain that starts to fall only works to emphasize the silence between the two of them.

And then he tilts his head. “You’re sort of chatty, aren’t you?” Akechi says, his tone surprised. 

“It’s fine if you don’t like the snacks, but you don’t have to be rude about it.” 

“No, it’s not about your sack of low-cost goods—it’s an observation.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this chatty.” 

She stills, hand frozen over a bag of seaweed. The weight of the petals suddenly seem heavier in her throat, making sure that it isn’t forgotten. Her stomach twists slightly, and she feels sick. A foreign sick, not the one she’s used to.

He’s right—she’s not chatty. At least, not anymore. Not since the loneliness took over. And Akechi doesn’t hesitate, nor does he miss anything. The minute he saw a shift in her, he picked up on it like it was nothing. Like he’s starting to know her.

This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To stop having to hide? To know someone who understands what she’s going through? That’s why she chased Akechi down the way she did; it was stifling to have to live with this curse by herself, to have a secret that’s literally too big to keep inside. And now that it finally, _finally_ seems like it’s going in the right direction, a realization looms over her like a shadow from an impossibly tall structure. For the first time, she understands what Akechi’s been saying to her, with venom and a sureness of his words: _I don’t want anyone seeing me like this._

Not hiding comes with something she forgot to account for—making herself known. 

A wave of nausea settles inside of her, stronger this time. The first time she made herself known, she lost her in an infuriatingly avoidable car crash. The last time she made herself known, it made flowers bloom from within her lungs like an inescapable garden, a siren call that she’s paying the price for.

And here she is now, again. 

“Oh, very funny.” 

His words pull her out of her spiral, and she blinks into focus. “Sorry?” 

He crinkles something plastic in his hand, his expression incredibly unamused. “You think that bribing me with jewelry is going to make you more superior to me? That it’ll make me buy you three more of your silly drinks in an attempt to get the upper hand? This ploy won’t work.” 

“I’m not following,” she admits. Jewelry? 

Sighing, he opens his hand to reveal a Ring Pop in his palm. “Even by the usual standards, this is an inept method of strategy. It makes me feel almost sorry for you.” 

The rain picks up, a pleasant _pitter-patter_ of droplets hitting the roof of their aging gazebo. 

She can’t hold it in anymore. 

Sumire bends forward and _snorts_ , the sound echoing unappealingly across the park, but she can’t even bring herself to care. And when Akechi quickly turns his head away from her, all sense of self-control breaks loose and she’s gasping so heavily that she feels light-headed. 

“I understand that we have an unspoken agreement not to mention the sickness,” Akechi starts, looking vaguely uncomfortable and still avoiding her gaze. “But I’d really appreciate it if you...did your business outside of the roofed area—”

A burst of laughter cuts him off, and her side is starting to seriously hurt. “Akechi—” Sumire tries, before a fit of laughter overtakes her, the sound so loud that she swears she’s probably disturbing the wildlife in this area. 

“You’re so,” she gasps out. Her lungs are burning, and for once, she doesn’t want it to stop. “Funny!” 

“I’m _what?_ ” 

“This isn’t the petals! I’m just laughing!” 

Just as she was starting to get her breathing back in control, he turns in her direction, brows furrowed. “Why are you laughing? This is a serious matter.”

That’s all it took to send her back into a spiral of hysterics. She’s laughing so hard that she can hardly see past the tears in her eyes. She’s laughing so hard that the sharp intake of breath hurts her throat, but it isn’t enough to discourage her. She’s laughing so hard that she forgets what she was so worried about.

In the back of her mind, she wonders when was the last time she smiled so intensely that her cheeks hurt.

She wouldn’t have felt this if she hadn’t come here. If he wasn’t there to say those words, or if she didn’t get oddly competitive with Akechi for no good reason. 

If it meant laughing like this, talking like this, smiling like this, then maybe she can find it in her to make herself known again.

— 

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens. 

He could have a hand over his mouth, a narrow finger held up. He could be gripping the edge of the bench like a lifeline before running to a nearby tree. He could be leaned over the railing, knuckles white as he pukes out wave after wave of bright, yellow petals. 

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens—Sumire will always have the desperate urge to reach out towards him. She isn’t even a particularly tactile person. In a way, they have that in common; neither of them seem to be in need of physical touch, and they’ve both been firm with each other about scrapping together whatever privacy can be offered in the wall-less architecture of their established gazebo. So she doesn’t reach out. 

But today is particularly bad. 

By the time she gets there—jeans soaked from the rain and shivering through her coat—it only takes her a moment to realize that his retching wasn’t normal. 

Akechi’s sitting at the very edge of the bench, his head between his legs as he vomits. Again. And again. The stream of petals were there, except now there're the occasional fully in-tact buds that were so large that it makes him choke. It’s as gruelling to listen to as it was to catch a glimpse of it—a sound torn between a wheeze and a groan, interrupted only by more coughs. His body was curled in on itself, seemingly without his permission. With the way his entire form juddered, she can only guess how straining it was for him to carry. 

She swallows. As slowly as she can, she sits beside him. If he notices her presence, he doesn’t say anything. 

The rain continues to pour, unaware of two teenagers taking refuge in a spot that was never theirs to claim. Raindrops make a sort of haze that takes over the park, making it difficult to discern anything past a few meters from where she is. It gives their spot the feeling of a snow globe: encapsulated. Familiar. A stream of water drips down from the roof, to the gutter, and eventually makes its way to an ever growing puddle. 

Sumire raises her hand and, before she thinks too hard, lightly rests it on his spine. 

He stiffens, taking in a sharp breath. It’s entirely possible that she’s imagining it, but it almost feels like he might be leaning back. 

And then the retching resumes, more punishing than before. Her hand gently slides up his back, and down again in what she hopes is comforting. Grounding. The whole time, she’s watching for minute changes in his expression, wanting nothing less than to decrease his discomfort. 

She doesn’t find any.

After what seems like hours, he finally slumps forward, exhausted. Too worn out to muster much other than his breath. When she offers him his drink, he silently takes it, downing it all in one go. 

The rain pours on. 

— 

Sumire hasn’t even stepped onto the wooden platform when Akechi bluntly asks, “Do you even do anything?”

“Please try to be more specific if you’re trying to hurt me before I even get to say hello.” 

“Hello,” he sighs, impatient. “And I’m not trying anything. It’s a question—what do you do when you’re not, I don’t know, crying in your bedroom and whatnot?” 

He passes her drink as she passes his, repressing the urge to throw it at him instead. At least it seems like he’s feeling a little better than yesterday. “You’re rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been made aware, yes.”

Sumire flops down onto the bench, thinking. “Lately I’ve been keeping up with school. I’m having a little trouble with history. There’s this new anime I’ve been watching, but I have to say, it’s a little boring.” A pause. “Um, is there anything specific you’re wondering about?” 

“Not at all,” he breaks open his seal and takes a sip. “Is that it?” 

She scratches her head, strangely embarrassed. “I’ve been trying to learn how to cook smaller portions, since I’m not moving around as much lately. “ Not exactly easy to do her routines when she’s in constant fear of adding petals to her cartwheels. “I need new boots, considering my old ones are falling apart. I see everyone at school, too. They always ask me to have lunch with them.” She doesn’t mention the part where she declines every time. Shame and guilt bubbles inside her, but it’s less painful than what would happen if she says yes.

Sumire shrugs. “Between that and coming here, there’s not much going on.” 

“I see.” 

She breaks her own seal and takes a long drink. “Okay, I give up. What was that about?” 

To her surprise, he looks genuinely caught off guard—his brown eyes widen every so slightly, and he raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve never done that before,” she says. “Small talk, I mean. It’s kind of strange.” That’s an understatement. 

“What’s so strange about this? Just because I never made conversation before doesn’t mean I couldn’t. I’m fairly good at conversation when I need to be.” 

“I can imagine.” In the few episodes of Good Morning Japan that she caught with him as the guest, he had no problem being charismatic and lively and enchanting to the audience. It’s weird to even imagine that now. “But you don’t do that anymore.”

“And thank God for that,” he scoffs. Tightening his scarf, Akechi turns to her, condescension clear in his eyes. “Am I not allowed to wonder what you do outside of the confines of this muddy park?” 

Sumire blinks, before a smile stretches over her face. “Don’t tell me…” 

“Ugh, you have the wrong idea,” he rolls his eyes.

“Akechi—”

“Stop.”

“You _care?_ ” she feels herself absolutely beam at him. It’s oddly endearing, witnessing his roundabout way of compassion. 

He shifts so that he’s turned away, arms crossed. “Nevermind, you’re too annoying to put up with. Leave. Begone. Get out of my sight.”

Tapping her feet on the wood, she can’t stop grinning. “No, you’d be too worried about me if I just left you here.”

Akechi throws a dark glare behind him, and she holds up her hands. “Kidding!” 

It’s more fun than she thought it would be to tease him. Too bad he’ll probably go off if she keeps this up. “And how about you? 

“What do you mean?” he mutters, still turned away. 

“What do you do? Other than bullying people and buying me drinks, I mean.”

Akechi shrugs. “Nothing noteworthy. Since I don’t do detective duties anymore, I’ve had no obligation to make public appearances or work cases.”

“Well, you must have a lot of free time, then,” she presses. It’s something she hasn’t considered until he had bought it up—it’s not as if the world stops and starts whenever they’re both sitting here together, despite what it may feel like. “Do you have hobbies, maybe?” 

He stays silent for a second, before: “Reading.” 

“Reading,” Sumire repeats, considering his answer. “It suits you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, spinning to give her a look. “How do I _look_ like I read?”

She gives him a once over; from his tawny coat and his green scarf, it always makes him look sharp, but it’s more in the way he holds himself; his back is almost always straight, his shoulders pulled back. Akechi always seems confident in what he does, so sure of himself that it might take people a second to realize what he’s actually saying instead of being pulled along blindly. She coughs, a petal escaping her lips. “Just trust me.”

“Whatever.” He leans back into his seat, his expression curious. “Do you read?”

“Mangas, mostly? I used to read more when I was younger, but then gymnastics took over my life.” 

“I’ve never been interested in that genre,” he admits. “It seems a little too close to make-believe to be enjoyable.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “I can understand that.” 

They lapse into a silence, and she can’t tell if this is weird. If this were anyone else, it wouldn’t be, but she’s pretty sure this isn’t normal. Sumire’s grown accustomed to Akechi’s distant demeanor, his emphasis on privacy. This is an oddity, a confounding variable she hoped they would eventually head towards but she still isn’t ready for.

Sumire doesn’t know what this is, but she knows she doesn’t want it to end. 

“Do you have a favorite book?”

Akechi’s eyes slide towards hers. “I have a few.”

“Can I borrow one?” she asks. “I’ve been wanting to get back into reading for some time now, but I don’t know where to start.” 

He stares at her, and Sumire almost laughs—only Akechi can be this wary about book sharing. After a moment, he looks away. 

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” he says quietly. A gust of wind blows, but all she feels is warmth. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

— 

The bench is empty. 

She studies it, scrutinizing the empty space where Akechi sits. It’s not the first time that she arrives before he does, but it’s rare. A tinge of smugness sets in her chest as she makes herself comfortable on the bench—it’ll be fun to tease him about winning today. 

It starts to drizzle once again. The smell of wet grass and moist wood slowly fills the air, only adding to the atmosphere that she’s come to memorize and appreciate. The soft _pitter patter_ makes itself prevalent on the leaves, so relaxing that it almost never fails to comfort her. Before, rain had brought her nothing but repressed memories and puddles of red. Rain had been a source of tragedy, a reminder that mocks her whenever cloudy skies loom above. 

Now, rain can only be a source of pleasure. The smell clears her mind, and the gentle sounds are company that she looks forward to greeting. Even in silence, all she can associate with it is snarky remarks and quiet confessions. Of arguments and hot drinks. Of brown hair and sharp eyes. 

And then her world starts to spin. 

A horrible sensation takes over her without warning, a crossbreed between nausea and suffocation infects all of her senses, forcing her to lurch forward and retch so hard she can feel tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. It doesn’t stop there—the minute she thinks she can catch her breath, a wave of petals rises up her throat, choking her, demanding that she coughs and coughs until a hint of blood begins flooding into her mouth. 

This is a torture she doesn’t recognize, an unfathomable overencumburance of agony. She retches again. No, that’s not true. This is familiar, but it’s evolved to a new level that she can’t even begin to comprehend. It makes her coughs from before feel like butterfly wings flapping in her throat. It is a merciless tidal wave that shows no signs of stopping. 

Her hand grips the edge of the bench, trembling. This is insane. The sheer amount of pain makes her nerves throb, her heart pound. It’s nearly on par with her Persona awakening; two different types of fabled events that no one should ever have to experience. Feeling lightheaded, she leans on her knees and concentrates on breathing, eyes clenched tight though she has no trouble imagining the flurry of pink falling between her boots. 

For a time, Sumire stays like this: choking, coughing, retching, alternating between suffocation and sharp pains in her esophagus. It’s like she’s floating, tether snipped away, and now she’s drifting in an endless open space, with nothing but the petals keeping her company. 

And then she isn’t. 

A weight rests on her back, warm and present. She can’t bring herself to look up, and she doesn’t even have the strength to twist her head, but the presence is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to. 

The touch is light, hesitant, and Sumire finds herself leaning into it before she can stop herself. It’s warm, enough that she feels heat through her coat, and he starts to gently drag his hand up and down. The feeling of that warmth spreads through her. She exhales shakily. 

Sumire gets it now. Why Akechi had let her comfort him had been a mystery, but it’s clear. Obvious, even. 

When you don’t want to show the world what’s wrong with you, you hide. Keep the world at arm’s reach, so that nothing else can get to you, to protect what little you have left. But in the process of maintaining that distance, you lose what you didn’t even know you had. That loss, it builds and builds, festering. And Sumire doesn’t doubt that Akechi’s been building it for longer than she has. 

In the act of defending themselves, they’ve forgotten how nice it feels like to be comforted. 

It still hurts, and she’s still suffocating, but she’s not floating anymore. Her petals aren’t the only ones who stay with her anymore. 

It could have been minutes, or hours, but they both stay like this. The downpour continues, droplets intermingling with the sound of her choking and coughing. He doesn’t say a word throughout. If his hand wasn’t there, she wouldn’t have thought there was anyone beside her at all. 

Finally, Sumire collapses back against the bench, mildly sweaty and shivering slightly, as if she had just run a marathon. She feels disgusting, and slightly unnerved—the sheer amount of petals at her feet is unsettling to say the least. Like the remains of a massacre taken place in the middle of a flower field. 

Too drained to fill in the silence with conversation, she leans her head back and closes her eyes, enjoying the chilling breeze that hits her overheating cheeks. Akechi presses a cold bottle into her hands, and she has just enough energy left not to let it slip from her fingers.

“Your flowers aren’t violets, are they?”

Sumire opens an eye to find Akechi peering down at the petals, curious. “Though it would be amusing if they were.” He looks up. “What flower is it? I don’t recognize them.” 

“Oh,” she rasps. “Cyclamens.” 

He hums. “I’ve never seen them before. They’re an interesting shape.”

She can only nod. “Yours are nice, too.”

Akechi’s face twists. “There’s no need to pretend. We all know dandelions are _barely_ considered flowers, if ever. Bottom of the barrel weeds, frustrating nuisances. I don’t even get the wishing type, only the yellow ones.” He smoothes out his features, turning it carefully blank. Her chest tightens. “Pathetic.”

“Pretty.” 

He blinks, before turning towards her. “What?”

Sumire clears her throat, wincing. “The yellow ones,” she whispers. “I think they’re pretty.” 

“No, you don’t.” He rebukes, measured and sharp.

“Nice colors, self-sustaining. Resilient.” She shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

When he doesn’t respond, she glances at him before looking away. There’s something so open about his expression, something vulnerable that she feels like she shouldn’t be allowed to look. 

The air tasted wet and heavy with rain.

“Is it too late to accept your apology?” he asks, and she didn’t know he was capable of having a voice that soft.

Delight cuts through her fatigue long enough for her to scoot towards him, shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly warm. 

“You’re just in time, I think.”

—

She’s about to leave when Akechi stops her.

“Here.”

Sumire glances at the plastic bag hanging from his fingertips. “My birthday’s in March.”

“It’s the _book,_ you massive hassle,” he rolls his eyes, impatiently shaking his hand. “I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” 

“Oh! Thank you!” she takes it, peering inside. “Are you sure you want to lend me this? If it’s your favorite book—”

“It’s fine,” he waves a gloved hand. “It’s doing nothing but collecting dust anyway. Take it.”

Sumire nods, and considers putting it in a sealed plastic bag to keep it safe. He’d probably make fun of her for it. “It’s not very long,” she notes. 

“I wanted to start you off light. That’s only one of the ones I liked, if you want more—” 

“Give me those too!” There’s something exciting about seeing Akechi’s interests, similar to seeing someone’s bedroom for the first time. “They’re probably really good, too.”

“ _Hold on,_ see if you like this one first,” he says. “I’ll give you the others when you finish, so you don’t have to carry around all of them.” 

She gives him a wide smile. “You know, it’s really sweet to see you care this much, Goro.” 

The name slips out without her consent, and even though she was the one teasing him, Sumire feels a rush of heat floods her cheeks. “Um, sorry, that was—actually, it’s fine, right? Unless it isn’t, but I mean, I feel like we can start—well, it’s up to you but—”

Akechi lets out a sigh, striding past her, boots sinking into the mud. “Let me know when you’ve finished the book, Sumire.” 

Her chest constricts, not unpleasantly. “I will!”

She waits for him to leave her line of sight, before sitting down on the wooden steps. Pulling out the book, she begins to read. 

— 

“What on _earth_ is all of this?”

“Paying my debts,” he replies, four full paper bags threatening to topple off his lap and off the bench. “You didn’t think I’d forget about something like that, did you?”

“No,” she says, staring as he struggles to reign them all in. “Because a normal person probably would.” 

“A normal person would forget because they’re weak.”

“Yes, and you didn’t forget because you’re not very normal, Goro.” Finding it too hard to keep watching, she finally moves forward to catch them before they hit the ground. They’re lighter than she thought they’d be. “Snacks?” 

“In that one, yes. But in these ones,” he gestures to the other two bags, a smirk settled in his expression. “I have legitimate food. Onigiris and sandwiches—none of that processed trash you keep feeding us.” 

“ _Onigiris?_ ” she throws his bags back at him forcefully (“Ow?”) and dashes to the others. “Salmon filled! Oh my God, you’re amazing.” 

Akechi rubs his shoulder, but he’s still smug. “Aren’t I?” 

“Yes,” Sumire bites into the onigiri, a burst of flavor seeping into her mouth. Amazing. “The greatest in the world.” 

“Alright, that’s enough.” 

“The best friend I could ever ask for!” 

“Calm down, it’s just an onigiri.” He sighs, exasperated, but a little pleased—his own version of smiling. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Pass me some, I’m starved.”

“I thought you don’t get hungry?” 

“Just pass me the damn sandwich.”

Sumire huffs out a laugh and starts rummaging through the bag (Does he want an egg sandwich? Teriyaki? This is more stressful than she thought it would be) when he makes a noise of interest. “Is that a new sweater?” 

“Huh? Oh, sort of.” She decides on the teriyaki, and he takes it from her hand. “I found it in the back of my closet the other day. I’m surprised you noticed.”

He shrugs. “Of course I would.” 

Sumire blinks, but before she can ask what he meant, he’s already taking a bite. 

She chews her onigiri, relishing in the flavor. She forgot how good these taste.

— 

There’s a lot of things she’s been noticing about Akechi lately. 

Once you get him to start talking, he won’t stop. He has an opinion on _everything_ —from school (“A waste of my time, but I would never be a high school dropout”), to the police force (“Incompetent idiots”), and convenience stores (“Convenience, indeed. I’m a supporter of their existence.”) 

He hates getting cold, so he has an alarming _three_ layers under his coat. It makes her wonder how he’s even able to move with all the fabric he’s hauling around. It’s sort of cute, in a sea otter way. (He didn’t believe her when she told him that they have the thickest fur in the world, producing a forty minute debate. It was brutal.) 

Akechi _hates_ wasting food, so they have to eat all of the snacks that they buy for the day. It’s not easy to impress Akechi Goro by any means necessary, but the way his eyes bugged out of his head when he watched her swallow an entire onigiri whole is probably one of the funniest moments in her life. On the other hand, Akechi barely eats. He can’t stomach anything more than a sandwich and half a bottle of hot lemonade. She’s pretty sure she can eat three times that much without breaking a sweat. 

At one point, she made him laugh. She remembers the way his eyebrows raised in disbelief, the way his hand flew to cover his mouth, but there was no muffling the snort that escaped through his fingers, a complete absence of his usual poise. Or the way his shoulders shook and his eyes were glowing with mirth, his laughter quiet compared to his normal speech, but it captivated her all the same. She remembers laughing with him, even though she couldn’t remember what she even said. That’s fine—she doesn’t really care about that part anyway. 

He’s still rude, he’s still snarky, and he’ll still find a way to make sure he ends up on top. But she sees more than that, the layers hidden underneath. 

Akechi is incredibly kind, as long as you can pick up on it. He’d never give out compliments, but he picked up on her favorite drink right away. He’s annoyingly smart and clever. He’s resilient, he’s proud (more proud than anyone she’s ever met), and he’s, without a doubt, her best friend.

He's also _observant._

He scoots over when she’s shivering without saying a word. He asks her how her test went even when she forgot she told him about it. He knows what jokes make her laugh the hardest and which ones make her smack his arm. He can tell when she’s feeling distant, quietly opting for silence to give her space.

This doesn’t surprise her.

After all, it only makes sense that he sees her just as much as she sees him. 

— 

“Do you like the rain, Goro?”

“Not really. It slows down the city, makes everyone take cover and cram under roofs and random nooks and crannies. It’s nothing but annoying, really. I used to hate it.” 

“But you don’t anymore?”

“I’ve come to appreciate it.” 

A long beat passes. 

“I think I know what you mean.”

A begrudging smile. A swooping feeling in her stomach. “I knew you would.”

— 

Akechi reminds her of autumn. 

Maybe it’s his hair, the shade reminding her of the leaves that fall to the ground when they snap from their branches. Or it’s possible it might be his green scarf that’s the same color as damp grass after light rainfall. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

But it isn’t the chill that reminds her of him—at least, not anymore. He’s too much like the ginger tea he gets her, too much like the warm shoulder that she’s grown used to having. He isn’t like the outpour of rain that flows down from the roof either. He isn’t slippery, he isn’t incalculable. He’s a constant, he’s the one thing she knows she has, one that won’t just wash away once the clouds clear up. 

The truth is she doesn’t know why Akechi reminds her of autumn. All she knows is that for some reason, when he asks her what her favorite season is, only one comes to mind. 

— 

“Taste it.”

“Ugh, no thank you. I told you I never liked that.” 

It’s storming, probably. 

“Then why did you buy it for me if you think it tastes like trash?”

“Because unlike some people, I care about the well being of others.” 

She can tell that the raindrops were hitting much harder than it usually did. The splash is bigger with each drop that falls from the deep-gray sky, creating dozens of other, tinier splashes—a domino effect, a never-ending cycle. 

“You’re foul, Sumire.”

“Oh, so _you’re_ saying that to _me?_ ”

Thick tree branches shook and shuddered under the onslaught of the torrent, quivering and swaying. A curtain of water flow is coming down from the roof of their gazebo. Like a protective sheen that makes them invisible from everything else. 

“I’m not _mean,_ I just don’t like to lie to save someone’s feeling from being hurt. That’s an issue that they have to take care of.”

“That’s really nice of you. I’m still not drinking it.”

She’s not too sure if it’s storming though, because all she notices is the boy in front of her—the way he’s pushing his bottle of hot lemonade into her hand and speaking loud enough that the rain ceases to exist. 

“A single sip.” 

“No,” she bats away the ever-inching hand reaching towards hers. “I’m happy with my tea.”

“Yes, that _I_ got you. My judgement is good, so drink it.” 

“Why are you so bad at listening?”

“Why are you so bad at taking directions?” he mocks, shifting towards her. She shifts away. Sumire’s keeping herself an inch apart, though she doesn’t know why. 

“Goodness, you’re something of a headache, aren't you?” 

“ _What did you say?_ ”

“I said that you’re a pleasure to be around!” She’s physically incapable of keeping the smile off her face at this point. “If it really means so much to you, fine. I’ll take a sip.”

“Finally!” 

Triumphant, though she has no reason why, he offers the drink. Sumire stares at it with a frown. “Why do you care so much?”

“I already told you—it’s only fair that you drink it after you practically force it on me.”

“I did not force it on you.”

“Yes, I perfectly recall you lacking the capability of minding your own business—”

“Hey!” 

“And I’m not saying I mind it anymore, but that’s when you really started irritating me—”

“You are being so unfair,” she pulls a face at him. “I wasn’t doing it to irritate you, and you know that. I did it because…” It clicks, and Sumire feels her eyes widen. “You!”

“What?” he asks, bewildered. 

“Don’t try and act dumb, Goro.” She snatches the bottle from his hand, inspecting the sloshing liquid inside. “It’s interesting how you’re still trying to lie to me even if you know you won’t get away with it.”

When did they start leaning into each other like this? When did they stop taking the edge of the bench, shifting so deep into the middle that they can’t even lean on the handle anymore? When did they start talking like they’ve known each other for years, jumping off of each other’s banter like it’s nothing? 

“Stop being difficult, and _get to the point._ ”

“You’re making me drink this because you know it’s good for my health, even if I think it tastes like bleach.”

Akechi crosses his arms. “And what if I am?” he challenges her, his eyes twinkling with defiance. 

“Then I’d say you should’ve been straightforward from the start.” Unscrewing the bottle, she finishes it all in one mouthful. A grimace twists her features. “It tastes like sewer water.” 

“What kind of sewer water are you drinking?” he asks, incredulous. 

“That’s no concern of yours.” 

“Hmph. Whatever’s in it is probably the reason why you’re like this, Sumire.” 

“Excuse me, and what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sumire. Sumire. She’s heard her own name thousands of times, relearned it in dozens of different ways, found herself time and again, but she feels like she’s never heard the right way to say it until now. She wonders if he’d make fun of her if she asks him to say it again. It would be a price she's willing to pay if it means hearing it roll off of his tongue one more time.

“It means that I don’t think anyone else could be as strange as you.” 

“You’re one to talk. Goro, please listen to me. You are, and I’m not exaggerating here, the absolute most unusual person in the world.” 

“You can’t say that unless you’ve spoken to everyone in the world.” 

“That is such a you thing to say.”

When did she get to the point where she can say that and mean it? She should’ve kept track of it. Day X: Sumire gets to know Akechi better than she did yesterday. Tomorrow? More of the same, hopefully. 

Instead of responding, he bumps her shoulder hard enough that she almost topples over. “Hey!”

“It’s not my fault,” he sniffs. “Perhaps if you were to wear six inch heels, you wouldn’t be having this problem.”

When did she get to the point where she never wants to leave such an old, abandoned gazebo? 

“I mean in this in the kindest way possible, but are you out of your mind?”

“You _know_ you shouldn’t be asking me that question.” 

When did she stop seeing a gazebo whenever she came here?”

“I know, I know.” 

Akechi glances at her. “I know you do.” 

When did she start seeing only him? 

A lull passes through them, and from the distance, thunder rumbles. She pays it no mind. 

Sumire yawns, the rain making her sleep. His shoulder is only inches away, looking irresistibly soft. She straightens up, instead. Lack of sleep can be pretty dangerous. 

They haven’t exchanged any words for a few minutes now. Sumire’s never felt the urge to break the silence with Akechi, but this is different. It’s not out of fear of making things uncomfortable, but it’s more like she wants to keep talking to him. She wants to see how he’ll react to what she does, or what she says. To see him furrow his brows, or roll his eyes. To have him complain about the world but praise the veiled corners of it. She wants to hear his voice. 

She racks her brain for something to say—it would be too obvious if she brings up the arguments again, right?—when she becomes aware that it wasn’t between them at all. Not completely, at least, because Akechi was _humming._

The tone isn’t one she recognizes, but her heart swells all the same. At the very least, that’s one thing she has over him: he’s a pretty bad singer. It’s off-tune and he misses every third beat. It can only ever be endearing to her. 

Her eyes wander around, taking in the park for the upteenth time but feeling like she isn’t taking in anything at all—she’s too busy committing the hum to memory. 

The foot of their gazebo was almost entirely surrounded by a few inches of muddy water, and it’s almost mesmerizing to see the large puddle react to being disturbed by rain drops. She lets her eyesight trail to the splintering beams that support the roof and cover their heads, and she almost wonders if there’s ever been anyone like them who sat on this bench. It would be impossible to tell. 

And then, tucked into the aging floorboards, something makes her squint. After a moment, she realizes what it is. 

Her heart stops. 

Akechi pauses in his humming. “What?”

Sumire opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are glued to it in a hazy, half-lidded state. The kind where you just can’t seem to pull your attention from it, no matter how hard you try.

“Did you see a squirrel somewhere?” he huffs. “What’s gotten into you?” 

Her fingertips tingle. She feels her lungs beginning to burn. Taking a breath, the burn goes away.

“...Sumire?” 

“Goro,” she mutters. “When…?” 

Akechi glances, and he must see something because he immediately turns towards her. “What is it?”

“When was the last time,” she takes a shaky breath. And then another. When she speaks, it feels like she’s loud enough that the entirety of Japan can hear her. 

“When was the last time that either of us let out even a petal?” 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Their eyes lock onto each other. Sumire stares at him, and he stares at her. Brown and red. Both filled with disbelief. 

Akechi breaks the silence, standing to saunter over the edge of the railing.

Gripping the edge hard enough that she can imagine his tendons stretching taut, he coughs. Nothing comes out. He does it again—still nothing. Then he tries coughing, forcing himself to retch, squeezes his torso with the tips of his fingers and tries to shift any part of his lungs for something to happen. 

But nothing does. 

Slowly, he turns around. His expression is unreadable. 

“Did you do this?” he asks, voice trembling. “Did you do this to me?”

“Huh?” It’s like she can barely hear him, like there’s a glass wall between them that nullifies his words until they’re nothing but goop by the time it reaches her. 

He gestures wildly at himself, eyes wide and crazed and something she doesn’t recognize. “You. Did you do this to me? Did you _fucking_ do this to me?” 

The rain was loud, then grew louder still. “Did I do what?” she quietly says. “You’re not being clear—”

Akechi takes a step towards her, teeth bared. “Don’t shit with me right now, you know full well what I’m talking about.”

“Then stop dancing around it and _ask me the question._ ” She needs him to say it. If he says it, maybe her world will stop spinning for just one second. After a second, she recognizes the odd expression, so strange and foreign on him that it was hard to recognize: fear. 

Even the wind takes a break from its howl to hear his words. 

“Are we in love?”

Sumire studies him, studies the person she’s come to fall in love with. “Are you asking if I planned this?”

“That’s not what I said.” 

“Then what _are_ you saying?”

She can pinpoint it. The moment Akechi snaps. “I don’t _know,_ Sumire. I don’t fucking know, okay? First, I’m alone, and that’s fine, that’s fine and goddamn dandy, because what can I do about it? Then I mess up, commit a couple of atrocities to make sure that I _stay_ alone, and you know what happens instead?” he lets out a laugh, so loud and unhinged that it almost makes her flinch. “I fall in love with _him,_ because of course I do, because of course I latch onto the first person I meet who didn’t treat me like _shit._ Then I’m alone again, and good fucking riddance because I can’t stand anyone else around me. And I was fine. I was good. I was alright, and then you come out of who the hell knows where and—and—”

Akechi tips his head backwards, shoulders sagging. “And before I knew what was happening, I’d let you take anything from me. Anything.” 

Absently, she realized she’d been crying. When had they gotten here? Slowly, she wipes away the stream of tears that have cooled on her cheeks, only for it to be replaced by a fresh one.

With wobbling knees, Sumire stands, and takes a deep breath.

“I need to go,” they say in unison. 

They blink. And Akechi huffs out a laugh, but the sound comes out hollow. Fake.

Sumire smiles with him, but it doesn't come out right. "I need time,” she says, even though she feels her heart break when she does.

"So do I," he mutters, before his eyes flash. "But—" 

"But not too long," she finishes. "I know. It's just—"

"Stop." Akechi cuts in. "Don't try. It's fine, you don't need to understand right now. I don't either. Just…” he hesitates, and it looks like his heart is breaking alongside hers. “Just be back here when you do."

Sumire opens her mouth, and the words are there, at the tip of her tongue. The words her body understood before her mind was able to catch up, a sentence so true that she never stopped to consider it's possibility. She can say it, and it would be much faster, much easier than this. She wouldn't need to go.

"I'll see you in a bit," she whispers instead.

Turning around, Sumire opens her umbrella, and walks away. She doesn't know if he's left, or if he's watching her go. She doesn't check. 

The rain continues to pour down, drop by drop, falling from each cloud like it's inevitable that anything else were to occur.

— 

The ground is littered with orange and brown leaves, a gentle breeze picking them up and taking them somewhere they’ve never seen before. It’s sunny, but for some reason, she can hear the sound of rain.

True to her word, she doesn’t see the gazebo the next day.

— 

Or the day after that.

Sumire considers calling, before realizing that she doesn’t even have his number. That wasn’t something she considered, before all of this.

— 

She considers buying a drink from the convenience store, and immediately dismisses the idea. 

Instead of taking a left to the muddy path, she keeps going. 

— 

It takes her four days.

Four days before she can muster up the courage to see the bench, to see the gazebo. Four days of imagining this scenario, of seeing it from every angle, from every possible outcome. In every scene, she knows Akechi won’t be there. At least, not yet. And that’s fine— _more_ than fine. He’s been in this hell longer than she can imagine, and that’s not something you can just walk away from. 

She’ll sit on the bench everyday if she has to. He’ll show up eventually. She’s done this before. They’ve done this before, in what feels like a lifetime ago.

Rounding the corner, she stops walking. 

Akechi’s leaning against the far support beam of the gazebo, just under the roof so that he stays dry. He looks ethereal like this, still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His eyes flicker to her when he hears her footsteps. 

“Making me wait, Sumire?” he says, ever arrogant. It does something to her pulse. 

“That depends,” she replies, though her pulse is so quick that it's distracting. “When did you get here?” 

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Hasn’t been long, then.” 

“Long enough, I’d like to think.” 

She lets out a laugh, mostly to release some of the flutters she’s harboring in her stomach. (It feels so different from the clogging in her lungs and the suffocation in her throat.) “Still so demanding, Goro. I’d say our timing was on point for this one.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile only gets wider. She can’t help but think he looks so good when he smiles. “I can’t help but agree.” 

“Can—” she hesitates, and then steels herself. “Can I be clear? With you?”

“You don’t even need to ask.”

Sumire needs to say it. This isn’t something she can just hope he understands, not something someone can say for her. It’s the reason why she needed time, time to unjumble the words in her head and resting in her heart. 

She swallows. Does she look as wretched as she feels? Can he feel her heart race a mile a minute? 

“I followed you here because I was scared of being alone. Because I couldn’t stand to listen to silence anymore, or the white noise that everyone gives off. I was scared to live my entire life having to hide, of having nobody that understands what’s happening to me or what I’m feeling. That all changed recently.”

Sumire tucks a strand of hair back, letting her gaze fall down. “It’s because you were there, Goro. You let me stay with you, you let me be with you. You let me be seen. Now I’m not scared to be alone. Now I’m just scared of losing you.” She looks up, feeling unmovable with the strength of her words and the truth behind them. “And if you’re not ready for anything, that’s okay. I’ll still be here. I wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I'm here.”

By the time she finished, her voice had fallen to a whisper. Nerves overtake her moment of bravery, though it does nothing to quell the lightness in her shoulders and stomach. It feels impossibly good to say it out loud, to put her love, her feelings, her thoughts, her everything into words for him to hear. 

A beat passes between them, so heavy that it feels solid.

“Hey,” he quietly says. “Come closer.” 

She blinks, before doing as she’s told. When she comes under the roof with him, he raises his far hand—gripped between his thumb and index finger holds a single bright dandelion paired with a soft pink cyclamen. 

“I’m in love with you, Yoshizawa Sumire.” 

He speaks simply and to the point; he doesn't feel the need to coat his words at this moment. 

Her eyes widen, but he isn't finished. “Being alone was my plan. Dying alone was my plan. To rot here, to live my days here. I’ve come to accept it. I had already decided that this was my future. But, if it’s okay with you…" 

Akechi Goro does not get nervous, nor does he feel the need to emote strongly if it isn't necessary. Yet right now, he shuffles his feet, and the fondness in his gaze threatens to overwhelm her. “I’d like for you to be my future, instead.” 

He says it in a breath, as if eager to get it out, or terrified to keep holding it in. She can't tell—she's too busy trying to comprehend despite the sheer ringing in her ears. But even if she were to lose her hearing in that moment, or lose her sight as he spoke, she still would have understood the meaning in his words. The impact of it pierced her heart ruthlessly in a way she'd never forget for as long as she'll live.

A sharp intake of breath and three strides was all it took for Sumire to throw her arms around Akechi’s shoulders. He stumbles back, surprised. “What—”

“I love you,” she cuts in, unable to wait any longer. He stiffens. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Akechi Goro.” 

Slowly, gently, he wraps his arms around her waist, and squeezes back just as tight. “I know that.”

“Good.” She’s so close to him that she can hear his breathing, his intake of breath—rhythmic, stable, and healthy. “You better.” 

“But…” 

She waits for him to finish. “Yes?” she says, when he doesn't continue.

Sumire feels him shift, uncomfortable. “But can you say it again?” he asks, not quite shy, but small, almost. Like if he said it too loudly, he might get in trouble.

Pausing, she arches back, confident that he would never drop her. “Are you sure?”

“Confident.” 

Grinning, she says, voice clear and deliberate and tinged with defiance: 

“I am so in love with you, Akechi Goro.”

He throws his head back and laughs, delighted, and she can’t help but laugh with him. In his arms, she is warm. She’s so, so warm. 

It only makes sense that it all leads to this. It only makes sense that they fall in love with each other, in the midst of a gazebo that’s falling apart and an area of the park that everyone’s forgotten about. 

It only makes sense that they have each other.

— 

The two of them bypass the line (Akechi with a smug expression and Sumire with an apologetic one) to enter the busy restaurant. A rush of steam comes at them, mouthwatering broth and the scent of spice wafts in from all angles—a staple of hot pot dishes. Waiters and servers bustle around, hustling to every seated customer. They make no move to call attention to themselves—waiting isn't a hassle. 

“You like it?” she asks. Her stomach grumbles and prays he can't hear it. “I thought it would be a pretty good first date idea.”

He sniffs. “It passes.” 

“It _more_ than passes! This is an A to me, and it should be an A+ to you.”

“It passes,” he repeats, conveniently looking away when she starts frowning at him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I approve wholeheartedly." 

“Good,” she puffs out her chest. “I was really looking forward to this.” 

“Were you?”

“Absolutely. I mean, this is the first time that we’re _not_ eating outside in a public area.”

His lips turn downwards. “While I can agree, I’ve grown fairly attached at our bench, as feeble as it is.”

Our bench. 

“Oh, that reminds me." Sumire unbuttons her jacket, pulling out a book from the pouch inside. “I’m ready for the next one.” 

Akechi glances at it, surprised. “Already?”

“It was a good book, but it’s sad.”

“Only in the beginning,” he argues. “It needed to be slightly depressing, don’t you think?”

“Maybe, if that’s how you see it.” She’s about to pass him the book when she remembers something. Flipping to the last page, she pulls her bookmark. “Oops! Almost forgot. Can't lose this.” 

“Oh.”

“You like it?” she twirls it between her fingers, the pressed cyclamens and dandelions pairing spinning together, intertwined. “I love it. It's almost like you're reading along with me.”

She relishes in the way his eyes widen before flickering away. “I’ll give you the next one tomorrow.” 

“Hurray!” she exclaims, sneakily moving her hand so she can hold his. But just before she can go in for the kill, he pulls away. 

Akechi removes his gloves, shoves them into his pocket, before twining his hand with hers. “You don’t have to use stealth strategies in order to win my affection, you know.” 

“I know,” Sumire says, swinging their hands back and forth. “I was just seeing if I could get away with it.” 

“You know you’re not very sly.”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ll just have to keep practicing, right?”

The host finally greets them at the door, apologizing profusely and ushering them further into the restaurant. 

Tokyo is a busy place. 

It’s constantly jam-packed with excited tourists and impatient suits and laughing teenagers. There’s lights, there’s cars, and there isn’t a lot of patience for those who can’t keep up. Eyes dart around, taking in the people, the atmosphere. It doesn’t matter how many times someone’s been there—there’s always something new to see. There’s always something new to miss. 

There are spots, however. Spots that go under the radar of the hustle and bustle, of the city life so ingrained into the concrete and roads. They go undetected, and people can live their entire lives in Tokyo without knowing that these spots ever existed. With how fast life moves, these spots are respites; they act like small pocket holes of air for whoever wants it, or for whoever needs it. 

As they’re being led to their table, she feels him tighten his hold on her hand. Her heart leaps.

This restaurant is a different spot. It's loud, crowded, and filled with people who don't look past their own bubble. But in the end, the restaurant isn't _her_ spot. Their gazebo wasn't her spot, either.

She glances at Akechi, and when he catches her eye, he tilts a brow up, curious. Unable to hold back, she smiles, wide enough for her cheeks to hurt.

Sumire finally found a spot of her own.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're reading this, i really, really thank you. this ship is so near and dear to my heart even though there's only about a dozen people who like these two romantically. 
> 
> look. I know not a lot of people are going to read this. but that's okay. that means I can do whatever I want with this story and it'll completely be from me. from my heart. from my passion to write. and I'm more than okay with that. 
> 
> if you liked it, consider leaving a kudos or even a comment :) have a good day, and stay safe out there!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://kareofbears.tumblr.com)
> 
> edit: someone made _beautiful_ [art](https://voltdracoatl.tumblr.com/post/633182716913926144/god-i-havent-had-this-much-motivation-to-draw) for my fic!


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